Farrier's Lane (36 page)

Pitt sat opposite her.

“I should be most grateful if you would tell me everything you can remember about the day your husband died,” he requested.

“Again?”

“If you please. Perhaps with hindsight you may see something new, or I may understand the relevance of something I did not grasp the first time.”

“If you think it will be helpful.” She looked resigned. If there were anxiety in her he could not see it, and he searched her smooth face for anything beyond sadness and confusion at the memory.

Detail by detail she retold him exactly what she had said the first time: their rising; breakfasting; Stafford’s spending some time in his study with various letters; Tamar Macaulay’s visit; the raised voices, not in anger but in vehemence of feeling; then her departure; and very shortly afterwards, Stafford’s departure also, saying he wished to interview again the people concerned in the Farriers’ Lane murder. Juniper had not seen him after that until he returned in the evening, deep in thought, preoccupied and speaking only briefly, telling her nothing at all.

They had dined together, eating the same food from the same serving dishes, then changed into formal dress and left for the theater.

During the interval Stafford had excused himself and gone to the smoking room, and returned to his box only just in time for the curtain going up again. What had happened after that, Pitt was as aware of as she.

“Surely it must be someone involved in the Farriers’ Lane case, Mr. Pitt?” she said with a frown. “It is repugnant to accuse anyone, but in this case it seems unavoidable. Poor Samuel discovered something, I have no idea what, and when they realized that, they—they murdered him. What other possibility is there?”

“Everything I have been able to learn indicates the verdict in that case was perfectly correct,” he replied. “The
conduct of the case may have been hurried, and there undoubtedly seems to have been far too much ugly emotion, but the outcome remains unaltered.”

For the first time there was a spark of anxiety in her dark eyes. “Then there must be some fact which Samuel discovered, something deeply hidden. After all,” she argued, “it took him many years to find it. Even the court of appeal failed to, so it cannot be easy. It is hardly surprising you have not learned it in so short a time.”

“If he had been sure of it, Mrs. Stafford, would he not have told someone?” he asked, meeting her gaze. “He had more than adequate opportunity. He saw Judge Livesey alone that day, and yet said nothing about it.”

Again there was that faint flush on her cheeks, the merest pinkening of the skin.

“He spoke to Mr. Pryce about it.”

“That is what Mr. Pryce says,” Pitt agreed.

She took a deep breath, hesitated at the edge of saying something, and then changed her mind. She looked down at her hands in her lap, then up at Pitt again.

“Perhaps Judge Livesey is lying.” Her voice was husky and the color was now deep in her skin.

“Why should he do that?” Pitt asked levelly.

“Because his reputation would be in jeopardy if the appeal were wrong after all.” Now her words were hasty, falling over each other as if her tongue would not obey her. “It was a very infamous case. He gained immensely in stature for his handling of it, the dignity and sureness of his dispatch. People felt safer because of his presence on the bench. Forgive me, Inspector, but you do not understand what it means for a judge of appeal to go back on his considered verdict. He would be admitting he was wrong, that he did not discover all the facts of the case; or worse, that his assessment of them was incorrect, and unwittingly connived at a terrible injustice. I doubt there would be any official censure, but that is hardly what matters. It is the public shame, the loss of all confidence in him which would be so appalling. His judgments would never stand in
the same way again; even his past cases would not have the weight they used to.”

“But surely that would apply to Judge Stafford equally, if the verdict were overturned for a reason they could have known at the time?” Pitt reasoned. “And if it were something they could not have known, then they were in no way at fault.”

She was about to argue, certainty in her face and patience to explain to him. Then confusion overtook it. “Well, I—I suppose so. But why should Mr. Pryce lie about it? He was prosecuting counsel. It was his duty to obtain a conviction if he could. He is in no way to blame if the defense was inadequate or the judgment faulty.”

He watched her closely. “There is always the possibility it had nothing to do with the Farriers’ Lane case, Mrs. Stafford.”

She blinked, the shadow of fear plain in her eyes now.

“Then he would have even less reason to lie,” she argued.

“Unless the motive were personal.” He hated doing this. It was like an animal toying with its prey. For all the gravity of the crime, he felt no satisfaction in the end of the chase. He could not feel the anger that would have made it easy. “I am aware, Mrs. Stafford, that Mr. Pryce is deeply in love with you.” He saw the color fade from her skin, leaving it pallid, and the alarm in her eyes. Were there no guilt, no fear for him—or perhaps for herself—then such a remark would have made her blush. “I am afraid his motive is all too clear,” he finished.

“Oh no!” she cried out almost involuntarily, her body tightening, her hands clenched in her lap. “I mean—I …” She bit her lip. “It would be foolish now to deny that Mr. Pryce and I have …” She stared at Pitt fiercely, trying to measure how much he knew, what he was merely guessing. “That we have an affection for each other. But it …”

He waited for her to deny that it had been an affaire. He watched the struggle in her face, the fear mounting, the attempt to weigh what he would believe, and then the defeat.

“I confess, I wished that I were free to marry Mr. Pryce,
and he had given me reason to suppose he felt the same.” She gulped at the air. “But he is an honorable man. He would never have resorted to such—such wickedness as to have … killed my husband.” Her voice rose in desperation. “Believe me, Mr. Pitt, we loved each other, accepted that it was impossible it could ever be anything more than a few snatched moments—which you may disapprove of.” She shook her head fiercely. “Most people may, but it is not a crime like murder—it is a misfortune which afflicts many of us. I am not the only woman in London who found her true love with a man not her husband!”

“Of course not, Mrs. Stafford. But neither would you be the only woman in the center of a crime of passion, were it so.”

She leaned forward urgently, demanding his attention. “It is not so! Adolphus—Mr. Pryce—is not … he would never …”

“Be so overcome by his passions as to resort to violence to be with the woman he loved,” he finished for her. “How can you be sure of that?”

“I know him.” She looked away. “That sounds absurd, doesn’t it? I realize before you say so.”

“Not absurd,” Pitt said quickly. “Just very usual. We all of us believe those we care for are innocent. And most of us believe we know people well.” He smiled, knowing he spoke for himself as well as for her. “I suppose half of falling in love is a feeling that we understand, perhaps uniquely. That is a great deal of what that closeness is, the idea that we have found something noble, and perceived it as no one else does.”

“The words seem to come to you easily.” She looked down at the hands clenched in her lap. “But all the explanation does not make it untrue. I am sure Adolphus did not murder my husband. You will not shake me from that.”

“And I imagine he is equally sure you did not,” Pitt replied.

This time she jerked her head up to stare at him as if he had struck her.

“What? What did you say? You—oh, dear God—did you say all this to him? Did you make him think I …”

“That you were guilty?” he finished for her. “Or that you had blamed him?”

Her face was white, her eyes brilliant with a sudden and hectic fear. Was it for Pryce or for herself?

“Surely you are not concerned he would think such a thing of you?” he went on.

“Of course not,” she snapped. And in that instant they both knew it was a lie. She was terrified Pryce would think it was she; the humiliation and the horror were hideously obvious.

She swung around, away from him, concealing her face. “Have you been to Mr. Pryce?” she said again, barely controlling her voice.

“Not yet,” he replied. “But I shall have to.”

“And you will try to put it in his mind that I murdered my husband, in a desire to be free so that I might marry him.” Her voice was shaking. “That is monstrous! How dare you be so—to portray me as—so—insatiable …” She stopped, tears of anger and fear in her eyes. She started again. “He would think …”

“That you may have?” he finished for her. “Surely not, if he knows you as you apparently know him.”

“No.” With great difficulty she was regaining mastery of herself again, at least of her voice. “I was going to say he would think that I was very immodest, taking too much for granted. It is for a man to speak of marriage, Mr. Pitt, not a woman!” Now her cheeks were white, with two spots of color high on the bones.

“Are you saying that Mr. Pryce never spoke to you of marriage?” he asked.

She gulped. “How could he? I am already married—at least I was. Of course he didn’t!” She sat very straight, and again he knew she was lying. They must have talked of marriage often. How could they not? Her chin came up a little higher. “You will not maneuver me into blaming him, Mr. Pitt.”

“You are very sure, Mrs. Stafford,” he said thoughtfully.
“I admire your confidence. And yet it leaves me with a profoundly ugly thought.”

She stared at him, waiting.

“If it was one of you, and you are so certain it was not Mr. Pryce …” He did not need to finish.

Her breath caught in her throat. She tried to laugh, and choked.

When she had recovered, she was unable to say the words of denial. “You are mistaken, Mr. Pitt,” she said instead. “It was not one of us. I swear it was not me. Certainly I wished at times I were free, but wished, that is all. I would never have hurt Samuel!”

Pitt did not speak. He looked at her face, the fine beads of sweat on her lip, no more than a gleam, the pallor of her skin, almost bloodless.

“I—I felt so sure. No, I still cannot believe that Adolphus would …”

“His emotion was not strong enough?” he said gently. “Was it not, are you really sure of that, Mrs. Stafford?”

He watched the expressions chase each other across her face: fear, pride, denial, exultancy, and fear again.

She looked down, avoiding his probing gaze.

She could not bear to deny his passion; it was a denial of the love itself. “Perhaps not,” she said falteringly. “I could not bear to think I was guilty of provoking such a …” Her head came up sharply, her dark eyes bright and bold. “I had no knowledge of it. You must believe me! I still only half credit it. You will have to prove it to me beyond any doubt whatsoever or I will still say you are mistaken. Only I know, before God, it was not I.”

There was no pleasure in victory. He rose to his feet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stafford. Your candor has been a great help to me.”

“Mr. Pitt …” Then again she found no words. What she wanted to say was pointless. To deny Pryce’s guilt was too late. She had already committed herself and there was no retreat. “The footman will show you out,” she finished lamely. “Good day.”

“Good day, Mrs. Stafford.”

His interview with Adolphus Pryce was conducted in Pryce’s office, and began comfortably enough with Pitt sitting in the large easy chair which was provided for clients. Pryce himself stood by the window with his back to the bookcase, a slender figure of innate grace.

“I don’t know what else to add, Inspector,” he said with a slight shrug. “Of course I know opium is sold in all sorts of general shops, so one supposes it may be purchased fairly easily. I have never used it myself, so it is only a deduction on my part. But surely that applies to anyone? To the unfortunate members of Aaron Godman’s circle as much as to me, or anyone else Judge Stafford met that day?”

“Indeed,” Pitt agreed. “I asked only as a formality. I never imagined it would produce anything of value.”

Pryce smiled and moved a little away from the window, swinging his chair around behind his desk and sitting down in it, his legs elegantly crossed.

“So what can I tell you, Inspector? All I know of the Farriers’ Lane case is a matter of public record. I believed at the time it was Aaron Godman, and I have not learned what it is that made Judge Stafford doubt it. He said nothing specific to me.”

“Do you not find that surprising, Mr. Pryce?” Pitt asked as ingenuously as he could. “Considering your own part in the case.”

“Not if he was still only suspicious,” Pryce said, his voice cultured and reasonable. If he felt any anxiety he was masking it. Pitt could have sworn the subject was causing him no personal concern, only the professional interest that was his duty. “I would expect him to wait until he had irrefutable evidence before reopening such a notorious case,” Pryce went on, “and calling into question a verdict already reached by the original court, and later by five justices of appeal.” He leaned a little farther backwards in his chair. “Perhaps you are not aware of just how deep the feeling was at the time. It was profoundly ugly. A lot of reputations were at stake, possibly even the reputation of English justice
itself. No, I am quite sure Mr. Stafford would have to have been very certain indeed of his evidence before he would have mentioned it to anyone at all. Even in the utmost confidence.”